“What man?”
“Just a minute, I’m trying to think, he gave me his name. He said he was an old friend of Mamma’s who saw the item about her funeral in the newspaper.”
“What’d he look like?”
“Old…older than Mamma, even. Kinda frail.”
“What did he want?”
“He said she had promised to help him on something he was writing…some magazine article. She had some information he needed to make it work.”
“Why didn’t he get it from her while she was still alive?”
“He was going to. Her death was pretty sudden. She was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes for supper, when her heart gave out.”
“So what did you do?”
“About this man, you mean?…I let him look through the attic. I didn’t think there was anything special or valuable up there.”
“This was even before Eleanor got up there, then?”
“Yes, at least two, three weeks before.”
“And you don’t remember this man’s name?”
“It’s right on my tongue, I’ll think of it in a minute.”
“Did he take anything out of there?”
“Not that I remember. He did have a big canvas briefcase with him. I suppose he could’ve put something in that. I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t trust people so much. Do you think he took something?”
“If you remember his name, I’ll see if I can find him and ask him.”
She shrugged.
“You said your mother may have shot the picture herself. Did you ever ask her about her life when she was young—who her friends were, what they did, stuff like that?”
“I was a kid. You know how it is, all I ever thought about then was kid stuff. Now I wish I’d taken more time with her, but then we were all into boys and music and makeup. When you’re a kid, your parents are probably the least exciting people in the universe. And you never want to learn too much about them, you’re always afraid they’ll just be human, have the same failings and hang-ups you’ve got.”
“You said there was other stuff in the attic…besides the pictures?”
“Tons of stuff…boxes and boxes of records and papers and letters. It just fills up that attic.”
“What was the purpose of it? Did she ever tell you?”
“She always said she was going to write a book about Mr. Grayson, who had been her friend for years.”
“Did she tell you how they met?”
“No.”
“What about your father?”
Her brow furrowed: dark clouds gathered behind her eyes. “What about him?”
“Who was he?”
“Just a man Mamma knew. He wasn’t around long.”
“Was his name Harper?”
“What’s that got to do with Eleanor? My father’s been nothing in my life.”
“It’s probably got nothing to do with anything. It’s just a question a cop asks.”
“My father’s name was Paul Ricketts. I don’t know whether he’s dead or alive.”
“Was he there then?”
“When?”
“The year we’re talking about…1969.”
“He must’ve been, at least for twenty minutes.” She blushed a little. “I was born that year.”
“Where’d the name Harper come from?”
“It was Mamma’s family name. She never married this man. I really don’t see why you’re asking me this.”
I backed off. I didn’t want to lose her. “I’m just trying to find out who was there, who’s still around, and what they might know. What about this book your mother was writing?”
“She never wrote a word, never had the time. It was always tomorrow. ‘Tomorrow I’ll get started.’ But tomorrow came and guess what?…She didn’t have the time. She always had to work two jobs to keep me in shoes and have good food for us to eat. And then that other Grayson book came out, you know, by that woman at the
